if my wishes can all come true
by She's a Star
Summary: Andy and Angela discuss Halloween costumes.


**Title:** if my wishes can all come true  
**Pairing:** Andy/Angela  
**Word Count:** 1,102  
**Spoilers:** set pre-"Employee Transfer"  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary:** Andy and Angela discuss Halloween costumes.

--

"I thought that was a joke."

Angela levels him with one of those stares of hers. She is just so … adorable. "Why would I joke about that?"

Andy quickly assesses the situation: they just finished up with dinner, and now they're sitting next to each other on her sofa. They've got the cats wandering around them. A little Mr. Buble on the stereo. Her hands are clasped primly in her lap, so he can't exactly hold one of them. But their legs are touching and she hasn't scooted away or hit him on the knee, so his hopes are high. There's definitely a good vibe in the air. It's lookin' like she'll even let him put his lips on her for more than three seconds tonight. Probably not on her mouth, but that's okay. His lady fair just so happens to have exquisite and delicious temples.

One of these nights, he'll work his way to her mouth.

"Youuu … wouldn't," he concludes. The way her face relaxes a tiny bit tells him that this was the right call. She still looks pretty dour, though. That alone isn't going to cut it; he's going to have to bust out some more. "You know what, that is a-okay, that is totally cool, because I … love the idea."

"You do," she says doubtfully.

"Pssh_yeah_!" He beams at her. "Do you even need to ask?"

Still dour. "Then why did you think it was a joke?"

Andy decides it's probably best to ignore that one. "Angela Noelle Martin, I will absolutely be a cat with you."

It's iffy for a few seconds. Then, juuust barely, the corner of her mouth twitches upward. "Thank you."

This is totally worth having to give up his costume plans. On one hand, it's kind of sad that the fine people of Dunder Mifflin Scranton will be deprived of the rick-rockin'est Joker since Heath Ledger (whom Andy had been looking forward to honoring), but making Angela smile? It's worth it. Beyond worth it.

"Are you kidding?" he asks gleefully. It's really hard not to just touch her. "Thank _you_. Because this is going to be amazing. We're totally going to have the best costumes in the office. Like, all those other people might as well not even show up."

"You can't just put on a pair of ears and expect that to be satisfactory," she warns him. "I'd like you to make an effort."

"Sweetie, remember who you're talking to. I am _all about_ effort. I am the effort _master_. You know what else takes effort?"

He pauses for effect, which is long enough for her to sneak in and say, "Getting into Cornell?"

"_Getting into Corne_—yes! Exactly!" Man! They are so _on_ tonight.

"All right," Angela says. She actually smiles with her teeth this time. There's even a little sparkle of excitement in her voice. "Then we'll be cats for Halloween."

"Yes, we will," he agrees, grinning back at her.

"Thank you for being so open to the suggestion," she adds after a moment. She says it in that warm, slightly breathless way she gets whenever she acts nice. (Nice_r_, that is. Than her normal amount of niceness. Which is nice enough for Andy, all the time, don't even question it.) "Some people would think it was a stupid idea."

"What people?"

"Just some people," she says, tensing again. "Theoretically."

"Well, then some people are idiots," Andy declares. He's sure to say it extra-kindly, so that she doesn't freeze up again. "Because your wish should be the command of all people. As it is of me."

She gives him another with-teeth smile. Her knee presses a little more deliberately against his.

"You know what we _should_ do," he continues, suddenly struck by physical-contact-fueled inspiration, "is get Mrs. Stallard from next door to come over and take some pictures of us all catted up _with_ the kitties here. How 'bout that, guys? Do you wanna have a little photoshoot with Mommy and Daddy?"

Andy doesn't really speak cat, or anything, but from what he can tell, the whole gang digs it. Garbage even lets out an approving little meow.

"See?" he asks, looking back at Angela and grinning. "They love it."

He expects maybe another smile or something, but what he gets is even better. She leans forward, very decisively, and kisses him on the cheek. She doesn't pull back right away, either. He adjusts to the unfamiliar sensation of her lips against his face, starts counting the seconds in the back of his brain on instinct: _one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi WOW five Mississippi, six Mississ-_

She backs away before '_ippi_.' Instead of saying something, or turning her attention somewhere else, she just looks at him. He's not sure what to do with the expression on her face. She doesn't look _happy_, exactly. More like thoughtful. He's not really sure what there is to think about, but if thinking about it means more kissing, then he encourages it most heartily.

Her knee is still pressing against his. He starts moving a hand over to her waist.

"Hey," he says, and his voice sounds all husky. (It's just that it's been awhile. He'd actually gotten more action when he _wasn't_ in a relationship, which still doesn't seem right.) "You wanna—"

"No."

He pulls his hand back obediently. Whatever, he's not going to complain. She kissed him. He's set for life.

Well, okay, ideally she'll kiss him more before he dies, but you know. He's good for the night. Maybe the week.

After a few seconds, she unclasps her hands and twines her fingers with his in a smooth, decisive movement. Her hand is really, really soft, and cool. His is sort of sweaty, but she doesn't even start lecturing him about it.

Score.

If that's not enough to merit some impromptu musical stylings, then what is? "_What's new, pussycat? Whoa-whoa-WHOA-A._"

"Andy."

He stops. "Sorry."

"No," she says, to his surprise. "You can continue. Just … quieter, please."

Which sends this skyrocketing to maybe their third best night ever.

"Yes, ma'am," he chirps dutifully, grinning. His heart feels like it's going to burst, but this time, it would be the good kind of explosion instead of the kind that makes you want to kick a trashcan or maybe, y'know, punch a wall. This, them, Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Bernard, it's going to work. Not that he ever thinks it's _not_ going to. It's just nice to be reminded, once in awhile.

_"Pussycat, pussycat, I've got FLOWers and lots of HOURS to spend WITH YOU—"_


End file.
